Free Murder with the Lot by Sue Williams

stop him. Or so she always said.
    â€˜Yep, Ernie.’ There didn’t seem much else to say.
    â€˜What do you mean hic “yep”?’ Ernie hiccups when he gets worked up. If you don’t move in quick and calm him, he starts vomiting. If you’re in the same room, you need to be agile.
    â€˜I meant yep, I’ll boot him out. I’ll go up there right now and sort it out. And,’ I looked at Brad, who’d come in and was shaking his head. ‘Brad’s checking now to see who won at Horsham.’ I handed Brad the phone before he could tell me not to.
    â€˜Reckon it must’ve been Flathead Phil,’ Brad was saying as I left. ‘Hang on, sorry, wrong race, it was Glendale Wastrel. Is that the dog you backed?’
    I chewed my lip as I drove. The road ahead was still glassy in the heat. Taking a clammy hand off the steering wheel, I wound down my window to get some breeze. Would Clarence even be there? Unlikely. Terry and Sergeant Monaghan were looking for him. He would have cleared off, surely. Still, I had to try, for Ernie’s sake. And maybe I could find out something useful while I was there. Something Terry might appreciate.
    I arrived at the turning to the shack. The shadows of the mallee gums were at full stretch as the light drained from the day. I started thinking about what I’d say to Clarence and what he might say back. No one would hear a shot out here. I shivered, despite the heat. Maybe I should have brought Brad along for some support. Or at least my star picket.
    I pulled up outside the shack, my wheels whisking up the dust. Clarence’s black Lexus and Mona’s silver Mercedes were still here. Surely Clarence must be around somewhere. It’s not as if the bus comes past on the hour. Nearest bus stop is fifty k up the road, a once-a-day job to Melbourne via Hustle, Trawilda and Sheep Dip.
    I got out, crunching over the dried tufts of grass to the front door, then knocked, waiting on the skew-whiff verandah. I jumped as the warning call of a willie wagtail stabbed the air. No sounds from inside the shack. No reassuring smells of dinner cooking. No lights on, although that wasn’t surprising since Ernie never got around to connecting the power. He was always the sort of bloke who preferred a kero lamp.
    I peered in through the window. Dark inside. I went back to the door, turned the handle: peered into the dim hallway. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust to the murk and stepped forward, bits of plaster crunching underfoot. ‘Hello? Anybody in?’ My voice had more than a hint of quaver. I jumped as something banged above. A bit of rusted corrugated iron on the roof come loose. The whole place was coming loose.
    I tiptoed into the front bedroom. The room looked like it had been hit by a meteorite. Clothes strewn across the floor. A suitcase turned inside out, long gashes cut into it. The other bedroom wasn’t any better. There were dresses piled on the bed, some ripped apart. High heeled shoes lay scattered around the room.
    I walked down the hall to the kitchen. Knocked-over chairs, smashed-up plates and glasses. I sighed. The place would take a shit load of tidying up. I really should have got references. I stopped by the back door. It had been ripped half off its hinges. Three round holes in the wall. Bullet holes?
    I peered out at the mallee scrub, the soil purple in the dusk. The buzzing of the cicadas was fading as the heat bled from the day. The sky was dark blue, last light a smudge of buttermilk on the horizon. I tiptoed outside.
    I paused by the row of parked cars, dim shapes in the gloom. I grabbed the torch from my glove box. Strode over to Clarence’s car, shone the torch in through his car windows. The foot wells were filled with drifts of takeaway food wrappers and drink containers. The doors and boot were locked.
    The door of Mona’s Mercedes was unlocked. Soft leather seats, no takeaway wrappers. I rootled